


Simmer

by Project0506



Series: Soft Wars Saucy Sides [15]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Star Wars AU - Soft Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28030455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506
Summary: (A Saucy Side)Hunter, Fives, and one particular downside to severe sensitivity to stimuli.
Relationships: CT-27-5555 | ARC-5555 | Fives/Hunter (Star Wars: The Bad Batch)
Series: Soft Wars Saucy Sides [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1701715
Comments: 10
Kudos: 91
Collections: Soft Wars Fic Exchange





	Simmer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kaito_Dragneel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaito_Dragneel/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Roil](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28210443) by [Project0506](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506). 



> For Kaito!

“Not at all?” There’s no disbelief in it at all. And no skepticism. “That’s rough.” Just honest sympathy. Hunter finds one more thing to add to the list of reasons he likes Fives.

The transpariplast bottle sits freezing against his fingers, ice-cold counterpoint to the rolls of steam settled fat on the water’s surface and tendriling off into the night. Above, tens of millions of distant suns dot the black with pinprick whites. Below, a solitary jury-rigged ion generator glows blue heat against the panels of what was once a fighter canopy.

Hunter melts against the edges of their makeshift tub. Curving metal presses fine curls of sweat-slick hair against his neck. His joints are water-warm, his limbs liquor-loose. He feels _good_ and hoards the minutes of that feeling as they stretch taffy-thick off into the future. He dangles the bottle between his index and middle fingers.

Just one, Fives had warned, and Hunter might have judged him a little for that, and a little more for how light a just-one he’d picked. He’s grateful now. The buzz that’s bubbled up to settle against his spine would have flooded him if it had been anything harder. Hell, Hunter might actually find himself liking the bright, fruity thing that spritzes across his tongue and sparkles in his throat.

It tastes expensive. It tastes like something a man had to make effort to get, and would save for something special. Or someone. He licks a stray drop from the top of his lip.

“No,” he says and takes a sip. “Not ‘not at all’.” He passes the bottle.

Fives eyes are on him, a heavy-electric that skitters up the hair on Hunter’s arms. Fingers linger on his just a shudder past too long before bottle and hand retreat. Hunter submerges himself up to just under his chin. The ends of his hair starfish out around the back of his head.

Fives drinks.

The night watches.

“Trigger management,” Fives has that strange tone, that sort of not-a-question but not-a-declaration. He does that when he thinks he’s got something, and Hunter hasn’t quite figured out why he’ll sometimes wrap his statements in wondering. Especially when he’s right. Hunter waves an idle point-to-you.

“Trigger management,” Hunter agrees. “Sound, scents.”

“Touch.”

“And touch.” Less touch, more the totality of sensation but Hunter can’t be bothered to surface far enough above his lassitude to say so. “Not worth it.”

“The risk,” Fives commiserates.

Hunter snorts. “The _work_.”

Something small and enterprising ignores their presence long enough to start chirping off in the dark. Water laps gently with the hum of the generator. Fives’ silence is considering. “I’m not sure I follow.”

Hunter opens one eye and hopes the stare is as dry as he intends. “Don’t you?” he drawls. Somehow, he thinks, either heat or drink has sapped even the sting out of his sarcasm. He gets an all-too-knowing grin in response: looks like there’s crafty hidden under the loud. Karking Torrent. “I could rub one out right here, fast and filthy. I could white out. I might not, but I could.”

Normally he’d even say ‘probably’. That sudden headrush, that spike of chemicals washing his veins, that flash of static that tightens every nerve from his eyes to his balls: there’s a more-than-even chance that he’d ride that high right up to the crest and the head-pounding-nausea would bodyslam him right to the ground and leave him flattened for hours.

Normally.

Tonight he’s just under half buzzed between his ears and just over half chubbed between his thighs and neither has sent that warning thrum threatening at the base of his skull.

“Doesn’t sound ideal,” Fives tries and even on a good day he’s terrible at sarcastic.

“Doesn’t,” Hunter chuckles.

“Doesn’t sound worth the _risk_ ,” Fives presses and he’s very, very good at insightful. “So what’s the other option. The one you think is too much work.”

The skin on the tips of Hunter’s fingers has curled into tight little wrinkles. His palm is a hot, heavy press to his forehead, over his eyes.

“Slow,” Hunter admits. Out somewhere in the trees, the persistent little bug finally gets a response and a pair of chirps flutter to and fro. “Very slow.” Painfully, achingly, _boringly_ slow. Teasing everything loose and pliant, never lingering anywhere long enough for sensation to tip from pleasing to overwhelming. A lot of knowing where that edge is, or asking if one doesn’t. A lot of waiting, while heat-mirage-shimmer decides whether or not it will flow or fallout. Orgasm or migraine. It’s an exercise in patience, if one wanted to be charitable.

A lot of work, if one was being truthful.

“All build-up, huge time investment.” Hunter presses fingertips in lights points of heat against his eyelids. “For minimal payoff. And unequal returns.” It would never be fair to a partner, and is hardly worth the effort to go alone. He swipes the bangs cooling on his forehead. “Not worth it.”

Transpariplast bottle clicks quiet against the stone pad beneath them. Water shushes up over Hunter’s shoulder to lap soft under his ear.

A strong hand cups heat at his elbow, another hovers just above the sensitive skin of his side.

“I think,” Fives says-and-asks, “that I might want to disagree with that last part.”

Hunter wets his lip. “Oh,” he tries very hard to drawl. “Do you.”

Fives kisses honey-slow berry-sweet against his tongue. Just that, just a kiss and hands gentling him steady. There’s a knee against his that could slip between his thighs, easier than breathing. It lingers in patient promise.

“I’d like to try,” Fives breathes into his mouth.

Hunter nods and reaches back.


End file.
